


Plain-Sight Clandestinity

by JadeClover



Series: star-hewn colossi [9]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 01:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15232698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeClover/pseuds/JadeClover
Summary: The true nature of the bond between the High Priestess and the Emperor is not common knowledge. An execution and a dinnertime discussion prompt Haggar to consider the matter.





	Plain-Sight Clandestinity

**Author's Note:**

> If I remember right, I somehow wrote most of this in a single day many months ago then promptly forgot about it. I recently found it in my WIP folder, polished it up, and here we go!

"Volaz learned the true nature of our bond."  
  
Her eyes find his, lock briefly, and flit away. "He no longer lives?"  
  
A dark rumble curls in her lord's throat, displeased but satisfied. "No."  
  
She spears another cube of _tyzaz_ from her plate, the meat's sauce thick and clinging. Its flavor burns sharp enough it needs no added sweetness, a sting on the tongue she can never recall having to accustom herself to.  
  
As she chews, her brows furrow. What the late commander did to earn his fate remains irrelevant, but the matter was likely disrespect. _Severe_ disrespect—toward her, not that she managed to notice.  
  
These incidents follow patterns. Her lord, normally so reserved and stoic, only sees fit to reveal the truth of their connection when he craves that specific look of dawning horror on the face of one who recently disparaged _"the Witch."_ Speaking ill of her, high priestess though she may be, is not grounds for execution—not alone and not typically, or they would have no soldiers left to command—but exceptions do arise. While the words of strangers cause her no offense, nor do they offend her lord— _typically_ —there are moments in which the words are too blatant and in his presence, when he tires of a disrespect based only in prejudice and false rumor and the particular brand of jealously worn by those who see power as a competition and think ruling an empire is a _game._  
  
He grows weary of the sort he can never manage to root out of his empire, whose flawed ideologies are nonetheless the result of a personal, public dogma he cannot compromise. They see her as weak, after all, and nothing will change that. And what is it he says...? _Weakness is an infection._  
  
When they finally learn the one they insult so freely is the Emperor's mate, no apology can save them. Her lord would not accept it—and nor would she. If one so proudly asserts their beliefs, they must stand by them, even in the face of death.  
  
 _Cowards._ But they matter not—except when they spark her lord's ire enough that he commands Intelligence to dig until they find some hint of treason to punish the ill-fated soldier for. The late Commander Volaz made too many mistakes, grew careless in his arrogance—and thus he found himself locked in a cell and suddenly privy to one of the Galra Empire's greatest and worst-kept secrets.  
  
A habit formed between her and her lord without their intention—a tradition in which they only let slip the truth of their connection to those who will not leave the room alive. Regardless, their bond is not _meant_ to remain secret, yet somehow it does despite any deliberate intent or careless lack thereof. She cannot comprehend it. They hardly make the truth of it plain, but surely some astute observer would have assumed correctly and spread it into common understanding by now. ( _Rumors_ do _reach her ears, hushed and fleeting, but they always get it_ wrong _._ )  
  
Her lord returns to his meal, the topic seemingly concluded as he guides his fork through the veritable pile of _tyzaz,_ ignoring the flavoring vegetables as is typical. She frowns down at her own plate, yet something in her cannot let the matter lie.  
  
"One would think they would have noticed. How long has it been?"  
  
He gives a faint rumble she cannot parse and lifts his gaze to hers. "Longer than their family lines existed."  
  
That much is true. The tracing of lineage changed notably in the past two thousand decaphoebs.  
  
Her lord abandons the plate before him, thoughts shifting and multiplying behind his eyes. The keenness in that gaze says she sparked a discussion whether she intended to or not.  
  
"They have their expectations," he says, "and we fail to fit them."  
  
"What do they expect?" she asks. "That I am a traitor who seeks to steal your throne?"  
  
The faint edge of a bitter huff reaches her ears. "Some will believe such lies. Others would assume more... _affection_ is needed."  
  
"Affection?" Flat—barely a question.  
  
The fork scrapes against the plate where he rests it. "They may be convinced were I to kiss you before a crowd."  
  
Her lips twist, ears pinning back beneath her hood. With narrowed eyes: "You will not."  
  
A small huff. "You thought I wanted to?"  
  
Of course not—she knows him, and he knows _that_ —but she will let the matter drop before sheer annoyance runs away with her tongue.  
  
Her meal calls again, the scent of meat and spices cloying in the air. She prods it with her fork, and she _does_ intend to spear a cube and eat, but a part of her still cannot dislodge that thought from where it lingers. _"What narrowmindedness..."_  
  
Her lord's brows lift as he reaches for his goblet.  
  
She pays the words of strangers no heed—nor does she give thought to their irrelevant opinions—but this... Perhaps it is a weakness, the way the memories still spring to the fore, bitterness returning despite all her best efforts.  
  
Countless times the nameless ranks whispered rumors, among them that she is a cold creature incapable of love. She _is_ cold, and she never understood love, not as others do, but she knows they mean to paint her a monster with that. She would gladly take it, except she is not incapable, not truly. She _does_ care for her lord.  
  
A piece of _tyzaz_ finally finds its way onto her fork, skewered along with one of the vegetables. She frowns down at it, but the food is not what displeases her. "What foolishness," she mutters. "I may love you more than there are stars in the universe, but that does not mean I must _say_ it."  
  
He knows already—why waste their time with redundancy? Her lord needs no reminders of her affection, nor does she need any from him. ( _And that is not coldness, there. It is_ warmth.)  
  
She lift her gaze to his and pauses. The goblet hangs frozen at his lips, but he has yet to drink, a sudden stare fixed upon her. ( _His eyes—unreadable, and his face... strangely softened._ )  
  
 _This._ This is why she does not express those deeper, gentler, _stronger_ feelings. It would not to do incapacitate her emperor so thoroughly on a regular basis.  
  
...Such a _strange_ look on his face. How rarely does she see it? ( _It is, and will remain, only for her._ )  
  
Her meal grows cold, for all that matters, the next bite she takes warm only in flavor. Chewing thoughtfully, she wraps her mind around the taste and tries to concentrate, but her gaze returns to him as though drawn there. Something in her quiets at his expression.  
  
Her lord remains still, silent. Did she steal his voice entirely, or does he simply have nothing to say?  
  
It matters not.  
  
"Do you intend to finish your drink, sire?"  
  
He blinks as though the simple question manages to startle him aware. Brows drawing, he glances down to the goblet still at his lips. He lowers it, frowning, only to raise it again and take the sip he initially intended. It earns one of his formidable scowls, as though a mere cup of liquid may be held responsible for his distinct lack of composure.  
  
( _What expression would cross his face if she told him it was endearing?_ )  
  
( _It may be too much to find out._ )  
  
Her own gaze drops back to her meal. Better to let the matter lie. Better not to tease him, not any more.  
  
She finds beneath a cube of meat one of the dish's sweeter vegetables—a rarity, their scarcity fitting for a carnivore's fare but _unsatisfying_ for hers.  
  
Her lord rests his goblet on the table and takes up his own fork again, a cloak of normalcy settling around them as though it never left. She will confess no more of her emotions. He will no longer look at her as though she burns brighter than the universe's every star. Not until later, at least—and truly, _how_ do none of his commanders notice the regard he holds?  
  
Perhaps because he hides it—or has no need to let it show—when they are not alone. Because _discipline,_ because he is comfortable in a mien of professionalism, just as she is, and that is just as well. No other need know, and that they do not is all the better.  
  
Some things—many things—are meant for the two of them alone.  
  
Their meal continues to the faint, occasional clinking of utensils and no more words exchanged—no need for them—but though the silence may be easy, it need not be absolute, nor unbreakable...  
  
She finds a small bowl of a sliced, faint-flavored vegetable—a specific addition to her own meal, as her lord requires no plant matter for nutrients, though he does indulge in them on occasion—and plucks one from it, holding it out to him. "Would you like a _deyent?_ "  
  
A pause, a blink, and a faint, unreadable rumble from high in his throat. His ears angle, his gaze scanning the food, but he accepts it, large claws lifting it gently from hers.  
  
An old habit. This is a private part of their relationship none could imagine—not a secret, merely something that exists without being seen. What lies between them dwells in the void between the known and the unknowable, between the obvious and the unimaginable. ( _What had he said? That they do not meet expectations?_ Good.) Words cannot describe them. Strangers cannot know them. And if their bond is meant to live in the darkness of a plain-sight clandestinity? _Let it._  
  
It changes nothing.  
  
She is the High Priestess. She is the Witch. She is the Emperor's wife, and she needs no more than this.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr [@jade-clover](http://jade-clover.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
